


Swings and Roundabouts

by HopeCoppice



Series: Fangytales [3]
Category: Young Dracula
Genre: F/F, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another adapted fairytale. Crossposted from Fanfiction.net.</p>
<p>AU: Vlad was never picked out as the Chosen One - and why are there so many feasts in his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swings and Roundabouts

"Dad, I really don't want to be here. Can't I just-?" The Count glared at him and Vladimir Dracula fell silent, accepting his fate. He would have to stay for the stupid feast and listen to his Dad prattle on and on about how his son and heir was going to make him  _so_  proud. He slunk upstairs, prepared to sulk for the full three hours left until the party. A few years ago, he would have been trying to get a tan, just to show his father up in front of his guests, but that was no longer an option.

He'd only been there an hour when he heard a knock on the door.  
"Vlad? Can I come in?" Ingrid didn't wait for a reply; he hadn't expected her to.  
"What do you want?" She smirked.  
"To help you get out of this feast, of course." He frowned at her.  
"How? And… why?"  
"Well, with you out of action Dad might have to make a fuss of his  _better_  child." She shrugged. "And if not, I'll get to meet some interesting people. Maybe I can find a way out of this dump." He narrowed his eyes slightly.  
"And if I accept your help, you want…?" She shrugged again.  
"New coffin, since you offer. Have you  _seen_  what Dad's got me sleeping in at the-?"  
"Deal. Now how are you going to get me out of this?"

Ten minutes later, Vlad was lying in his coffin, trying to look feeble.  
"Dad, I think Vlad's sick!" Ingrid called. As expected, the Count was at the doorway within seconds, but Ingrid was in his way. "You don't want to go in there, it's disgusting..."  
"Thanks, Ingrid," Vlad croaked, making sure to sound as ill as possible. He hadn't pulled a sickie like this since the days of Stokely Grammar.  
"Unfortunately it hasn't stopped him talking," Ingrid continued brightly. "Apparently he bit a mixie rabbit." The Count's worried expression vanished, replaced by a proud smirk.  
"A rabbit! Well, it's about time, but it's a  _start_ , Vladdy. Well done!" Ingrid rolled her eyes.  
"Yes, well, he won't be up to the party after all. Such a shame. Still, it's too late to cancel now. I'll help you host-" she ignored her father's grimace, "- and Zoltan will let us know if Vlad needs us." The Count nodded.  
"No cure but coffin rest. Feel better  _soon_." Somehow he made it sound like an order.

Ingrid watched him all the way down the corridor before smirking at her brother.  
"Too easy." Vlad grinned back, reaching for a hoodie. "You'll want your cape if you plan to go out the window." He sighed, acknowledging the wisdom of that, and threw it over his shoulders.  
"How did you know the cure was just rest?" She shrugged.  
"I bit a mixie rabbit when I first turned 16. Thought there must be some logic to the  _Bite the Bunny_  scheme. I was in my coffin for  _days_ , not that Dad noticed. Anyway, it clears up on its own. Now get out of here, just in case. Zoltan doesn't mind covering for us, do you, fleabag?" The hellhound growled, but nodded. It was just barely dark outside; Vlad threw himself out of the window, Ingrid's parting remark ringing in his ears.  
"Don't forget the feast ends at three!"

* * *

Vlad touched down in the middle of… well, he wasn't quite sure where he was, to be honest. He'd been flying overhead and spotted a park, and here he was. Resuming his more human form, he took his cape off, rolled it up, and shoved it into his pocket. He decided that since he'd apparently already made up his mind that a deserted park was the best place he could possibly be tonight, he might as well take a wander. He passed a deserted children's play area and had to fight the urge to have a go on the swings… Well, OK. On his second circuit of the park he decided he might as well enjoy himself while he was here.

He skirted around what appeared to be a relatively well-dressed tramp, asleep on a bench where he assumed mothers sat to watch over their children in the daylight hours. He would try not to wake the man; he looked peaceful in the moonlight, but the state of his clothes and hair – not that Vlad was  _looking_ , particularly – suggested that he had been on the move for some time and probably needed the sleep. Vlad sat carefully on the furthest swing from the tramp and began to push himself carefully into the air.

Of course the chain creaked as he reached the apex of his swing. How could he have expected anything different? He dug his heels into the ground, bringing himself to an abrupt stop – the chain clanked and he winced – but the damage was done. The man on the bench sat bolt upright, bright blue eyes piercing the darkness.  
"Who's there?" He'd grabbed at the large book he'd been using as a pillow and was holding it as if it was the only valuable possession he owned, which Vlad supposed was probably true.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you- I just wanted to swing…" He trailed off, realising how pathetic that excuse was for waking a homeless person. "I'll leave."

"Don't. I'm awake now, you can swing all you like." The stranger picked up the satchel containing all his worldly goods and came to perch on the swing next to Vlad as he shifted awkwardly on the seat, reluctant to keep going now that he'd woken the man. "You can show me how it's done." He didn't seem to be joking; Vlad raised an eyebrow.  
"You've never been on a swing before?" The stranger fixed him with a piercing look.  
"Our kind aren't much for playing, are they?"

That was when Vlad noticed the tiny scars at the man's throat; he'd never have seen them if the cryptic comment hadn't made him look. It was somewhat audacious for a half-fang to address a born vampire as an equal, of course, but Vlad had never been one to care for such things. He didn't comment, just leant back on the swing and prepared to push off.  
"You'll want to put that book away first." The stranger placed it reverently in his bag, then imitated Vlad's pose on the swing. They pushed off together and Vlad watched a small smile spread across the other man's face as he began to get the hang of it.

"I can see why breathers would do that," he admitted, when they'd both slowed and were just sitting on the swings, side by side, "it's like flying, if you can't." Vlad nodded.  
"Want to go on the roundabout?" The stranger peered at him suspiciously, but grabbed his bag and followed. Vlad gestured for him to sit on the middle of the rotating table, and took hold of one of the handles, preparing to run at breather speed until the ride built up enough momentum to spin on its own.  
"I'm Bertrand," the stranger blurted out as the ride began to turn. Vlad offered his own name in exchange as he leapt aboard the roundabout, but he got the distinct impression Bertrand wasn't listening any more.

Bertrand, as it turned out, did not cope well with being spun. Vlad had to stick a leg out and bring the whole affair to a painful halt as the older man began to panic, a hand clamped over his mouth. It wasn't until they came to a stop that he realised what the other vampire's problem really was – his bag had slid right to the edge of the platform, and while Bertrand was still too dizzy and nauseous to move, the old book he'd clung to so tightly earlier was about to spill out of the satchel and onto the ground. It was obvious that Bertrand didn't want that to happen; Vlad thought nothing of speeding round and catching it before it could do so. At least, he thought nothing of it until a bolt of energy from the book zapped him.

Bertrand stared at him in shock as he handed over both book and bag, catching a glimpse of his own wristwatch in the process.  
"Oh,  _fog_ me." It was two thirty. "Sorry, great meeting you, sorry I woke you up and made you dizzy, gotta fly!" He whipped his cape over his shoulders and took off for home, leaving a very nauseous Bertrand sitting alone on a roundabout that was still turning slightly, staring up into the night sky.

* * *

It had been just over two years since that night in the park, and Vlad had never been able to pull the rabbit excuse again. After all, his father had found out it was a lie eventually, and since Vlad refused to touch anything but soy blood, it was hardly believable. Now it was coming up to his nineteenth birthday and yet another feast was being planned.

"Can't I just-" There was a knock at the door and he had to wait for the Count to dispatch Renfield to answer it. "Can't I just have a relaxing night? Erin's coming over to see Ingrid, we were just going to watch some films…" The Count bristled.  
"No son of mine is spending his birthday playing third wheel to that harpy and her… breather  _pet_." He shuddered dramatically.  
"She's not a harpy, Dad, she wouldn't be anywhere near as determined to take your throne if you weren't so mean to her."  
"She's just like your-"  
"She's not Mum." Vlad was glaring at his father, daring him to argue, when a polite cough reached his ears from the direction of the door.  
"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something? Your servant sent me up."

Ingrid appeared in the throne room from nowhere, curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar voice. Since she'd started dating Erin – a former slayer, though nobody had dared mention that to her father yet – she'd completely changed her style. The short hair, like her girlfriend's, and the androgynous breather clothing she favoured these days were really little more than an easy way to annoy her father, but they worked. Occasionally, if she was wearing the hoodie she'd put on today, she could even be mistaken for Vlad's brother. The Count raised an eyebrow at the stranger in the doorway.

"Yes, well, he's an idiot. What do you want?" The stranger bobbed his head down in deference before holding out a book – a book that seemed as familiar to Vlad as its owner, though he couldn't place either.  
"I've come to seek the Chosen One." The book seemed to glow slightly in his hands. "I believe I'm in the right place." Before the Count could respond, Ingrid had stepped forward.  
"I'm the eldest, you must mean me. What do I have to do to prove it?" The stranger frowned; something wasn't adding up – his memory must be failing him.  
"Just touch the book, and it will recognise the Chosen One." Ingrid smirked, reaching out a finger to stroke the book's cover.  
Nothing happened.

She reached out again, placing her whole hand on the book, but it didn't stir. Nor did the skeletal hand clasping it shut release its grip when she tried to pry the fingers apart. The stranger – Bertrand, Vlad thought, for some reason he just knew the man's name was Bertrand – pulled it away from her, looking disappointed.  
"Perhaps I was wrong-" Vlad stepped forward, everything suddenly clicking into place.  
"You weren't wrong, Bertrand. I've seen that book before, it zapped me." Bertrand's expression was suspicious, but a glimmer of something akin to hope seemed to light up in his eyes.  
"Anyone could make that claim." Vlad rolled his eyes.  
"I woke you when you were sleeping, you're fine with heights but you get dizzy really easily. And you cling to that book like it's the only treasure you own."

The older vampire's eyes widened and he turned to Vlad, holding the book out with both hands. Vlad ignored it, pulling the vampire into a hug, careful not to crush the precious tome between them.  
"I never apologised for making you feel sick," he murmured into Bertrand's ear. "You'll have to let me take you to dinner to make up for it."

Bertrand nodded, smiling slightly, as Vlad stepped backwards, the book falling open in his hands, still covered by Bertrand's.  
"I'm Vlad, by the way."


End file.
